Harry Potter and the Birth of a Legend
by Dr. Sheep
Summary: Post OotP. A new war rages and Harry Potter's destiny is set; he must save the world from the Death Eater scourge or die and let it burn. Beginning his training in earnest, Harry must awaken new power within himself and toe the line between good and evil as he seeks to kill Voldemort once and for all.
1. Chapter 1

Cosily nestled amongst the snowy-capped peaks of North Wales, magically carved into the ancient rock of Snowdonia, there lay a building better protected than, perhaps, any other in the country. Only bearers of the mark could enter, apparating into the lone entryway; a lobby constantly watched and guarded by some of the most powerful wizards under the Dark Lord's command. Those who passed through the lobby would find themselves in a corridor, subjected to a rigorous magical screening process that scanned the magical signature of those who wished to enter the room beyond. Those who weren't recognised were killed. Many would argue, if only they dared, that such security was redundant as no one in their right mind would wish to pass uninvited into that room, as in that room sat the most powerful dark wizard the world had ever seen. This was the headquarters of Lord Voldemort.

The room was dark and dirty, the atmosphere nervous and foreboding as a musty smell hung thick in the air. There was a constant chill and those who entered found that any trace of happiness was sucked from them like air into a vacuum and they would shiver uncontrollably, forgetting themselves, forgetting everything but their subservience to this man, this deity. This being who could summon the aura of a dementor, who could bend the minds and wills of powerful wizards and witches alike; their master. It was a room of ragged stone; walls, floor and ceiling, with only a filthy rug and a single high-backed chair against the far wall in sympathy to human comfort. Of course, he preferred it this way. Like a vampire, he loathed the light and everything it stood for, he derided luxury and scorned comfort. Why should they be comfortable? They were nothing but slaves, a means to an end, and they needed to be reminded of that from time to time.

A crowd of seven masked figures stood to attention around the chair, formed in a semi-circle as they listened obediently in fear and awe as their master began to speak. Lord Voldemort spoke quietly but commandingly, making no attempt to raise his voice; his Death Eaters would listen.

"What progress have you made in locating the object, Bella? Your Lord tires of waiting, surely you need not be reminded of the consequences of failure?"

"No my Lord," Bellatrix replied shakily, a trace of fear tinging her earnest deference. "As yet, my lord, we have been unable to locate the object. We have tracked down the last owner, but they died over two hundred years ago and the location of the object remains a mystery. However..." she added, seeing the look of fury that flashed across the Dark lord's face and knowing the rest of her sentence held her life in the balance, "I managed to find an obscure manuscript that tells of a small, unplottable island in the North Sea. That is where it is rumoured to be."

"Good, you have done well Bella," the Dark Lord hissed. "I will finish this myself. Once I have broken the unplottable wards, the object will be mine and we will move onto the final phase of the plan. You are all dismissed, except you Severus."

The Death eaters all gave a small bow before turning away from their master and filing out, all looking relieved to have escaped the room relatively unharmed.

"Oh and Bella?" Voldemort said, prompting the witch to pause by the door. "Crucio! Try to be more prompt with your information next time."

He laughed softly, warmth spreading through him, as Bellatrix's screams echoed through the chamber and she writhed on the floor in agony. When the torture finally came to an end, she picked herself off the floor and dragged herself out of the room. A dark smirk on his face, the Dark Lord then turned to address his spy.

"Severus, tell me what information you have from Dumbledore?" Voldemort questioned.

"There is…nothing new, my lord," came Snape's reply and even his usually unflappable nerve quaked at having to deliver such new. "Either he is unaware of the object's existence or is keeping it for himself."

"No, Dumbledore would never sully his hands with such a _dark, evil_ object; his biggest weakness of many. However, he will be aware of it; that muggle loving fool has an unfortunate habit of busying himself in matters that are none of his concern. The next time we meet, you will have that information will you not, Severus?"

"Of course my lord," came Snape's reply.

"Yes you will Snape, Crucio!"

Snape fell to the floor, his limbs twisting in pain. He tried not to scream and succeeded but for a low, strained moan, a terrible, animal thing from deep within his gut. Voldemort allowed himself a smile; how he loved it when they tried to resist, the joy was so much more exquisite when they finally capitulated to his power. It was a good few seconds before Severus screamed but, when he did, it was almost orgasmic for his master, who had allowed the expectation to fill him. He laughed.

"Your lord is merciful to spare you, isn't he Severus?"

Snape hauled himself up so that he was on his hands and knees, his head limp and sagging as he tried to remain conscious. He coughed up a fine spray of blood but forced himself to speak.

"Y-yes, my lord. Thank you my lord."

"He will not be so merciful if you disappoint him again. The next time I call you Severus, you will have information to give me."

Snape nodded, gingerly clambered to his feet and stalked out the room, leaving Voldemort alone to lean back in his throne, his hands clasped together in thought and a small smirk adorning his features. Soon the object would be his and Dumbledore's days would be numbered, so too Potter's and their band of muggle-loving traitors.

Suddenly, the scene distorted and started to shift. It was Voldmort's lair no longer but a confusing whirl of shape and colour, before it slowly came to rest on an all too familiar scene. It was the scene of a man, handsome but scarred, a man with long, dark hair being struck by a deadly curse to the chest. That man was his Godfather, the last of his family, those who didn't hate him anyway, and he felt that blow like it had been he who took it. Time slowed as Sirius Black froze before falling, horrifically yet gracefully through the dais that stood in the Department of Mysteries, a look of surprise on his face as his cousin looked on, cackling in delight. Harry fought desperately as he tried to reach his Godfather, but Remus' strong arms held him back. Eventually, the awful realisation dawned that Sirius was not coming back and Harry fell limp, supported only by his old Defence against the Dark arts teacher as his heart grew heavy and he felt tears threaten to spill from his eyes.

And in a small village in Surrey, hundreds of miles away from the mountains of Wales, a sixteen year old boy with jet black hair and startling emerald green eyes sat bolt upright in his bed, sweat pouring from every pore. Panting heavily, he looked wildly around his room, before slowly collapsing back onto his cool pillow. The dream played again before his eyes. The Department of Mysteries he was used to, by now that horror had been forever scorched into the cornea of his mind's eye, but the bit before, with Voldemort and his Death Eaters, that was different. That was real and now and something told him it was important.

"I have to tell Dumbledore about this."

**A/N: This is a story that I wrote years ago when I was but a whippersnapper of a boy of fifteen. The story itself and some of the writing, I still like so I've decided to go through it and tidy it up. If you were reading this or its sequel before I took it down, I apologise but I haven't noticed any reviews or any other action on here for some time so I don't think there were many of you and it'll be much better once I have it up again.**

**Anyway, thank you for reading and please do leave a review to tell me what you think.**


	2. Chapter 2

_Dear Harry,___

_Thank you informing me of this, rest assured the Order will take care of the matter. Please try to forget what you saw and continue practicing your occlumency, it would not do for you to allow it to slip. Contact us again if you have any further information or if your relatives are mistreating you in any way.___

_Yours sincerely,___

_Professor Albus Dumbledore._

Harry angrily screwed up the letter and threw it to the floor. _He didn't even have the decency to tell me what this object was_, he thought, before taking a deep breath to try and calm himself down.

This had been especially difficult throughout the few days he had spent at the Dursleys' house (he could never think of the place as home). The image of his Godfather falling through the damned veil, his face contorted in shock, seemed permanently tattooed upon his mind and it mocked him whenever he closed his eyes. He felt numb, numb to the agony clawing at his heart and threatening to rip it apart. But is stirred every time he saw that memory as it looped around and around in his mind. Sirius wouldn't have wanted him to mourn for him, of that he was sure, but he was the closest thing Harry had ever had to a father; someone who cared for him unconditionally, who had offered him a home and a semblance of normality before the cruel hand of fate had torn it away from both of them. Sirius had been a good man, flawed yes, but ultimately good and whatever Gods there may be had taken his life and made a sport of its ruination. Twelve years in Azkaban, twelve goddamn years in that abhorrent cesspit of a prison, rotting in the dank filth of his greatest horrors and fears. And what solace had he been allowed upon his escape? Three years of life on the run, of nearlys and could-have-beens before his own cousin had robbed him finally of his life.

Harry shook his head and banished the dark thoughts furiously from his mind. After weeks of darkness and pain, of grief and self-pity, Harry had finally accepted the death of his godfather. He hadn't gotten over it and he doubted he ever would but he had accepted that Sirius was gone and would chide him profusely not to dwell. As he had spent the long, lonely hours of day with nought but his nightmares for company, realisation had slowly dawned on him that, whether he liked it or not, it was his destiny to finally end this war, one way or another. He didn't have the luxury of time to mourn for his beloved Godfather, his time was not his own to waste. This line of thought led him back to the prophecy;

_The one with the power to vanquish the dark lord approaches…born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…And the dark lord will mark him as his equal but he will have a power the dark lord knows not…And either must die at the hands of the other, for neither can live while the other survives…the one with the power to vanquish the dark lord will be born as the seventh month dies._

These words haunted Harry's very soul. How was he supposed to defeat one of the most powerful dark wizards of all time? Even Dumbledore had trouble keeping up with him. Harry couldn't duel like they did in the Department of Mysteries, the very idea of it seemed laughable. _Stop it,_ he told himself, there was no point in thinking this way; he needed to start thinking proactively. He needed to plan, to prepare and to train.

With this in mind, he took out a piece of parchment and quill and started to set down for himself a list. He scratched himself out a title at the top of the page:

**How to kill the most powerful dark lord of all time (and destroy his vast armies) by Harry J. Potter, aged 15.**

He smiled wryly to himself, he liked to think Sirius would enjoy the title. But this was not game and he paused a moment, sucking on the end of his quill in serious thought before putting it to paper for his first objective:

**1. Research as many useful DADA spells as possible, along with any other spells that could be helpful in a duel or battle situation.**

This, he knew, was paramount. If he was to stand any chance at all against Voldemort or even some of the more powerful Death Eaters, his knowledge of spells needed to expand exponentially upon his fifth year education. 

**2. Practice these spells to increase skill and power. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.**

**3. Research in to the dark arts.**

Harry knew that the Order would not approve of this, but also knew that it was imperative that he knew what he was up against. After all, how was he supposed to fight something he didn't understand? And he had to admit, a slither of satisfaction wormed in his stomach at the thought of defying Dumbledore and his order; they who had excluded him and placed him in solitary confinement though it was his destiny to fight.

It was fair to say that Harry was angry with the old man. He had manipulated him and withheld important information that, not only regarded him, but could influence whether he lived or died in the war. If he had known about the prophecy sooner, he could have prepared, he could have paid attention in class and Sirius might be with him today. He shook his head; down that road lay madness, he would not blame, he would not dwell.

**4. Get in to shape.**

From experience, he knew how important physical fitness was in a duel. Dodging curses and rapidly firing off spells of his own really took it out of him and although Quidditch had helped, it couldn't hurt to be fitter. This could also be a hefty advantage in his favour. Many Death Eaters, he knew, disdained exercise as something for muggles and he was determined to make their folly his gain.

**5. Start a war effort: Train others, recruit people into the DA, try and get some spies and key allies.**** Turn the DA into a fighting force to be reckoned with.****  
**

This was an important one. Harry wasn't arrogant enough to think that he could end this war on his own. Even if he was the only one who could defeat Voldemort, he would need others to fight the Death Eaters and anything else that the dark lord had managed to recruit into his service. He was going to turn the DA in to a proper army, a force that would be of value in the war.

Putting his quill down, he looked down at the list satisfied, happy that at last he was doing something of use, that his life had direction and focus and, also, that with all this, he wouldn't have time to dwell on myriad horrors of his past. Looking at the clock on his battered old bedside table, he saw that it was almost midnight and realised that there would be little point in starting his training today. Tomorrow he would go to Diagon Alley to pick up some books and supplies to help him in his mission. He didn't quite know how he was going to get there, but he would work out a plan in the morning. His mind was set, nothing would stop him.

Knowing that any sleep he might get would undoubtedly be disturbed by dreams of his Godfather, Harry settled in for yet another long and sleepless night. He stared around his small cluttered room; Dudley's old, broken toys, games and furniture still littered what used to be his second bedroom and with Harry's school books, parchment, quills and a variety of other things from his trunk, it was messier than ever, but Harry was in no mood to tidy it up.

Sighing, he tried to relax and just stare out the window into the cold, dark summer night, but he found that all lines of thought led back to Sirius. It didn't work that way, he realised for the millionth time that summer; he couldn't tell himself to forget, to move on, to heal. Some of it would come in time, some not at all and he needed to accept that. To take his mind from such thoughts, he picked up one of his old DADA books and started to read, figuring that he might as well do something useful to quieten the demons of his mind. He had just passed halfway through the book when his eyes grew heavy and drooped and Harry Potter, for the first time in weeks, fell into a dreamless sleep.

**A/N: Part 2 of the improved Harry Potter and the Birth of a Legend, please leave a review to tell me what you think.**


	3. Chapter 3

Harry awoke at 6:00 am the next morning with a plan already formed in his mind. Scared by the Order's warning, the Dursleys had pretty much left Harry alone and he had been allowed to keep his school trunk and supplies. While this had been a blessing, it had also proved an odd sort of curse. Without the usual Dursley nagging and jibes, without an enemy to rally himself against, he had been left alone with his depression and his grief. It was for the best, though, he decided; had his relatives stumbled upon an insult to Sirius, he would not have been accountable for his actions. He thought again of his godfather as he blearily dressed in the dim early morning light; the man's laughter, his jokes, his body falling limply through a dark shroud…

_I'm supposed to be passed this_, he told himself angrily. _No more feeling sorry for yourself._

With that in mind, he pulled on his invisibility cloak and quietly crept downstairs. Standing in the hall, with his back pressed against the wall, Harry watched the door and began his long vigil. For over an hour he stood there, waiting for his moment as Privet Drive awoke and a gentle hum of activity began to fill the house. Petunia was up first and barrelled down the stairs, narrowly missing her invisible nephew as she rushed into the kitchen. She hurriedly cooked breakfast as Vernon bustled about, bellowing that he was going to be late but still finding time for a Full English.

Finally, at 8 o'clock, Vernon made his way out of the door and Harry was able to slip out behind him, sending unseen rude gestures at the disillusioned Order members he knew must be keeping watch. Grinning at the seeming success of the first part of his plan, he made his way through the streets of Little Whinging until he was satisfied that he was far enough from the order's intrusive presence. Putting out his wand in a small, deserted street, he summoned the triple-decker Knight Bus and boarded, raising his hood in an attempt to remain unrecognised.

"Flamin' 'ell, 'Arry Po…?"

Harry clamped his hand over Stan Shunpike's rather large and unsubtle mouth.

"Ssshh, I would appreciate it if you didn't broadcast the fact that I'm here to the whole wizarding world".

Stan nodded his head in understanding.

"And I would rather my presence go unreported once I leave."

"Right you are 'Arry. Discretion, that's us all over 'Arry. 'As to be you see, we get some right sorts on 'ere. Only the other day, we picked up Johnny…"

"The Leaky Cauldron please Stan," Harry interrupted, handing over the fare with the sinking feeling that his conductor's silence would last only until the next person who would listen. "Remember, not a word."

He pushed another couple of galleons into the man's hand to press home the point before walking over to a comfy looking rocking chair, trying to look inconspicuous as he was scrutinized suspiciously for his unusual attire. He glanced around himself, Moody's signature chant of 'Constant vigilance' ringing with new clarity in his ears as his nerves were set on edge. Seeing no obvious danger, he relaxed a little and settled down for the journey.

After a short but very uncomfortable ride, Ernie announced;

"Next stop, the Leaky Cauldron"

Harry stepped off the bus moments later and into the dank, murky pub. A deafening silence rang out as he entered, hands hovering near their wands. It shouldn't have been a surprise; every day now, the newspapers were filled with nothing but murder and kidnap, terror and war. The wizarding world was on edge, standing at the brink of war, and the few patrons who had risked an outing for a beer watched warily as the hooded figure strode quickly through the pub and into the backstreet that served as the entrance to Diagon Alley.

Tapping his wand on to the correct sequence of bricks, Harry watched as the wall peeled away to reveal a spectacular view of the magical street, which was, he noted, not a tenth as crowded as the last time he saw it. And those who had come were different too. People hurriedly made their way from shop to shop, not stopping to talk to acquaintances or grab an ice cream at Fortescue's. Staying in groups for added safety, they kept their heads down and wand hands ready as they went about their business in the greatest possible haste. It was a sobering reminder, though little was it needed, of the state of affairs and Harry observed with a melancholy pang. He was quickly able to push it aside though; war or not, crowds or not, this was Diagon Alley and he loved this place like few others.

His gaze once again scanning the area for any danger, he set a course for the far end of the alley and _'Gringotts'_; he would need some major funds for this particular excursion. He walked over the threshold of the magnificent white building and joined the nearest queue, waiting patiently to be served by one of the countless goblins sitting at raised desks in the great hall. Reaching the front, he produced his key and pulled his hood back slightly to verify his identity for the goblin. He saw a look of surprise cross the goblin's face before it was quickly and professionally hidden.

"Griphook," the goblin said, calling over the same goblin as in Harry's first year. "Show Mr. Potter down to his trust fund".

Griphook nodded and beckoned Harry to follow as he walked over to one of the high-speed carts, which would take him down to his vault. As the cart moved off, careening around corners and racing past vaults and chambers, Harry was too afraid to open his mouth as he feared that, if he did, more than just words would come out. They soon arrived at his familiar vault, however, and Harry had the chance to ask the question that had been burning in his mind.

"Griphook?" he asked the goblin.

Griphook looked slightly taken aback at the use of his given name and responded slowly;

"Yes Mr. Potter?"

"It's Harry, please. What did the other goblin mean when he asked you to take me to my trust fund? This is the only vault I have, my inheritance, I mean there can't possibly be any more than this can there?"

He motioned to the large chamber, which was full to the brim with stacks of Gold and Silver, with an occasional smattering of Bronze. Griphook hesitated only slightly before responding.

"While it is true, that this is a good sized trust fund for one as young yourself…Harry…, it is only a small fraction of your family's assets. The Potters are an old and wealthy wizarding dynasty and your mother and father added no small sum themselves. The rest of your inheritance is contained in the Potter family vault along with various items and heirlooms. Books, furniture, weapons, the usual pureblood fare."

Harry stood there, gobsmacked. It took him a moment to recover his wits but a small bubble of excitement arose within him at the thought of something new of his family that he could see, he had so little after all.

"Will you take me there Griphook? I'd like to see it, only I don't have my key."

Griphook smiled,

"A key is not necessary for a vault of this type sir. But yes, you may see it of course; you were supposed to be informed of all this when you reached the age of eleven."

"Who was supposed to inform me?" Harry asked feeling that he already knew the answer.

"Why the executor of your parents' will," the gobbling replied, snapping his fingers and glancing at the scrap of parchment that appeared in his hands. "Professor Albus Dumbledore"

"Thank you Griphook, you have been most helpful," Harry replied, suppressing the anger from his voice with great difficulty.

Inside, he was fuming. _How dare he?_' he thought. It was yet another way that Dumbledore had manipulated and controlled his life and, there and then, he vowed to himself that he would never allow such a thing to happen again. This was his life damn it and he was going to live it as he saw fit.

Another quick but harrowing cart ride later, Harry stepped out of the vehicle and up to the door of vault number 7. It was large and thick, solid iron and ancient. It was also doing a rather good impression of a wall, with really very little to reveal its true purpose; no handle, no hinges, no lock. Pausing at the entry, Harry looked questioningly to Griphook.

"Trace your finger along the pattern at the top of the door."

Harry looked carefully at the door to see a lightning bolt carved intricately in the top left hand corner. He did what he was told and felt vibration beneath his fingertip, small and isolated underneath his touch. He silently stepped back and gasped as the door suddenly seemed to melt away, leaving behind an awe-inspiring sight.

If his trust fund had been a fortune, this was something else entirely. The vault was about the size of the Hogwarts Great Hall and it was full of Gold and Silver piles, disrupted every few feet with some Bronze. But it wasn't just money that filled the Potter family vault; as Griphook has promised, there were dozens of bookshelves with hundreds, maybe thousands of books, books as varied as varied as 'The Potter family history' and 'Battling the dark arts: an Auror's guide'. There were sofas and tables and weapons of all kinds; swords, knives, even some guns, all of the finest quality and as beautiful as they were deadly.

"How much is there in here?" Harry asked dumbstruck.

"I would need an assessor and a rather tiresome inventory to value the property Mr. Potter, but, at last count, with the gold added from the Black family fortune, you have approximately ten million galleons in coin," the goblin replied with a smirk.

"Ten million?" Harry breathed in disbelief. He was wearing a pair of Uncle Vernon's old socks. "Wait, what's Sirius' money doing in my vault?"

"You are one of Mr Black's benefactors, Mr Potter, the main one in fact. The will reading will be in a couple of weeks, but the funds were automatically transferred here upon his death."

Harry merely nodded in reply, his face stiffening in determination at the thought of Sirius. He would put his money to good use.

He walked out of Gringotts an hour later, his bag full of books and gold, along with one of the knives he had found in his new vault. Looking around the alley, he decided that he might as well go from shop to shop, making his way back up to the _'Leaky Cauldron'_ where he would wait until nightfall to visit the less reputable of the two alleys; he knew it was more than his life was worth to be recognised in Knockturn Alley.

The first shop that caught his interest was one that he had never seen before. Small and out of the way, it was called '_Trimble's Trunks_' and sold trunks, suitcases and luggage of all kinds. A new thought struck him and a wide smile split his face, growing the more he thought on it. It was perfect, it solved many of his problems in one fell swoop. He was thinking of the Mad Eye Moody's trunk; magical and vast, with compartments as big as rooms and magic deadlocks to secure it from outsiders. He needed a place to train, somewhere out of the way, where he wouldn't be seen, where better than the foot of his bed? A jangling chime sounded in the back of the shop as he pushed over the door and he was washed with a shower of warmth as he crossed the threshold. _Must be some sort of protection charm_, he thought, glancing down at himself to find nothing changed or missing. As he looked up, he saw a man in his late thirties with a kind, good-natured face coming towards him. He was well spoken and posh in a way that told of years serving the upper echelons without ever being admitted to their ranks himself.

"Can I help you Mr…"

"Evans," Harry said, thinking quickly and giving his mother's maiden name. "Yes, I'm looking for a trunk with multiple compartments. You know, the ones with rooms inside."

"You mean our multi-chamber trunks Mr Evans," the man replied "We have a wide range of such trunks, most of them are simply trunks with more than one compartment one of which is magically expanded to, perhaps, 200% its size. However, we do, as you say, have a selection that contain full rooms. I fear I would be remiss if I did not warn you, that they do not come cheap."

"Money is no object", Harry replied, smirking as he thought of the vastness of the Potter family vault.

He caught himself after a second and decided that to smirk at his own wealth was a very Malfoy thing to do. He stopped it immediately. His attendant's smile, meanwhile, had grown considerably at that comment and he gestured to Harry to follow him.

"Very good sir, allow me to show you our collection."

The clerk led Harry around countless trunks much like his own current one, towards a small, roped off selection towards the rear of the store. It comprised of just seven trunks, all exquisitely wrought in beautiful polished woods, with shining accoutrements of silver, bronze and gold.

"To my eternal bafflement sir, there is little demand for a room inside a trunk, despite its many advantages. We do maintain a selection of the highest quality, however, for the discerning customer such as yourself. We currently have seven, as you will observe, all with their own quirks and qualities," the clerk informed hi. "These three all have three compartments, one of regular size, one that has been magically expanded to twice the size and a third inside which, dwells a plain room, twenty foot square, which can be altered to your own specifications. These second three contain four compartments, one regular, two magically expanded and a third, which is set up as a small library and sitting area, slightly larger than that of the other trunks."

"What about that one?" Harry asked, pointing to a stunningly carved oak trunk at the back.

It was large and striking, inlaid with a reddish wood that Harry couldn't identify, that writhed and danced across the curved surface in a scripturesque design. Golden handles and hinges gleamed as they seemed to grow from the wood like blossoms from a tree.

"That one", the clerk replied with a proud gleam in his eye, "is one of my finest creations. A masterwork sir, if I do say so myself. It is expensive, but, as it took me three months to hand carve the body alone, it very well should be. That one, Mr Evans, has seven compartments. Two are the standard 200% expansion, one is a large library and sitting room, complete with fireplace and three-piece suite. Another room is a duelling arena, with a duelling platform and spell resistant test dummies. There is also a fully stocked, magically refilling kitchen, a professional-standard greenhouse and small potions lab. There are numerous optional spells that can be placed upon it; a shrinking spell, which allows the trunk to be shrunk to the size of a matchbox at will, a shield charm to protect it from exterior damage, though this does, of course, have limitations and a spell which allows only registered people to enter the trunk. Such people would have to be registered by yourself and can only enter by putting their hand on the circular indent on the top and stating the password. These, of course, will cost a little extra but are, in my opinion, well worth the money for the security and convenience. Why, buy this trunk Mr. Evans and you could live in it if you liked, comfortably and securely at that."

Harry stood there in awe. He had to have this trunk, it went far beyond anything he could have hoped for and would be perfect for his needs.

"How much is it?" he asked, trying not to sound quite as eager as he felt.

"With all the added extras, Mr Evans, it is twelve thousand galleons."

_Not even a dent in my funds_, Harry thought with a smile.

"I'll take it."

Twenty minutes and several spells later, Harry walked out of the store, feeling thoroughly satisfied with his purchase. He forced himself to calm though, knowing there was still much left to be done. Pausing to think, he decided to head straight to his next, and possibly most important, destination: '_Flourish and Blotts_'.

The bookstore looked unnaturally empty to Harry's eyes, used, as he was, to seeing it thriving with activity. The emporium of knowledge, Hermione's own personal Zonko's and Honeyduke's, had been reduced by fear and war to only three customers, who nervously glanced over their shoulders as they scanned the aisles for books. Harry walked in and went straight to his favourite section of the shop, the one entitled: _Defence Against the Dark Arts. _He immediately got to work, grabbing a basket with a magically enlarged interior, before starting to pile books inside. He grabbed everything that caught his eye and then scanned a second and third time to make sure he hadn't missed anything. Thirty minutes later and laden with over twenty books, he moved over to transfiguration, picking up a further ten. He then went on to visit the Charms, Potions and History of Magic sections, loaded up his basket, thanked God for the feather light charm, and walked over to the check out. He paid for his purchases quickly before the bookkeeper, who was glaring suspiciously at his dark cloak and hood, could get a good look at his face and strode swiftly from the shop.

With the main bulk of his essential shopping done, at least what he could do during the day, Harry headed towards some wizarding clothes shop and treated himself to various casual and formal robes, along with a new pair of dress robes and some battle robes for the arduous training sessions ahead. He also topped up his potion supplies at the apothecary, with half formed plans in his mind to brew something for his nightmares and perhaps a few little concoctions from the less savoury books he planned to buy. His favourite purchase, however, was a wand holster, which allowed him to strap his wand to his forearm and release it quickly into his grip. It took a few times to get it right but soon Harry could have his wand in his hand with a flick of his wrist; a great advantage when it came to battle. He briefly considered going to visit Fred and George but knew that he couldn't risk them going to Ron and Hermione or worse, the Order so he contented himself with a top at Eeylops for some owl treats. He hadn't been the best of company to Hedwig lately.

Going in to muggle London, he visited several clothing shops and picked up some decent clothes, ones that, for the first time in his life, actually fit. He also bought himself a new watch to replace the one that had stopped working in the lake during the Tri-wizard tournament. _About time, _he thought as he admired it, _I've been checking a bare wrist for the time for over a year._

With his shopping complete for the day, he headed back to the Leaky Cauldron to rest before his night-time excursion. Entering the pub, he once again bowed his head to avoid being recognised by one of the pubs' inebriated inhabitants. He really didn't feel like being harassed by a drunk who wanted to shake his hand and tell him that he believed him all along. _That and the minor fact that al dark lord is after my blood, _Harry thought to himself sarcastically.

He approached the bar and leaned forward towards Tom and lowered his hood, enough to allow the innkeeper see his scar. He knew Tom from his time at the Leaky Cauldron before third year and knew that he, at least, was trustworthy.

"Do you have a spare room Tom? I won't be needing it for the night, just for a couple of hours" he enquired.

"Of course, Mr Potter," Tom replied, keeping his voice low and offering a warm smile. "Number 15 is free, that will be five galleons if you please."

"Thanks Tom, and I'd appreciate it if we kept my presence here to ourselves," Harry said as he was handed the key.

"No need to ask, Mr Potter, all business is conducted in confidence," Tom replied. "Good to see you again."

With one last nod to Tom, Harry raised his hood and headed up to his room.

Two hours later, as the sun started to set, Harry emerged from The Leaky cauldron and into the darkening street, once again attired in his dark cloak and hood. Glancing around for any sign of potential danger, he found none and headed up by the side of Gringotts and into Knockturn Alley. The alley was as dark and grimy as ever, a perpetual feeling of foreboding emanating from it cobbles, and Harry hunched his shoulders, eyes darting around him, as he felt heart rate ratchet up a notch. This was the last place that the Boy Who Lived should have been wandering around at night but he knew that it was vital. If he was to fight the dark arts, he had to learn the dark arts and there was no better place for that than Knockturn Alley.

Walking quickly and purposefully to avoid any unwanted attention, he came to his first stop, the shop he had been in once before and hoped never to visit again. He had been a scared child then and had quaked to see the Malfoys selling all means of dark goods, but he was a scared child no longer. Steeling himself, Harry entered _'Borgin and Burkes'_. The shop's greasy owner was stood behind the counter and looked up as Harry entered and marched towards him.

"Can I help you with something Mr…" he sneered.

"Yes, I want to know if you could help me with a rather sensitive matter", Harry replied, ignoring the enquiry after his name and filling his voice with an entitled lilt and confidence. "You see, I need to be confident that any business transactions that may occur between us will not find their way to the ministry."

"Rest assured sir, any business conducted here will remain between the two of us. What is it that I may assist you with?" Borgin asked, his eyes lighting up at the possibility of business.

Even the criminals were afraid to come out in these dark times and he had been affected by the lull as much as anyone; if it hadn't been for the Dark lord's Death Eaters, he would have gone bankrupt.

"Well you see, I am not yet of age in the eyes of the ministry but my father and I feel that, in these uncertain times, I need to be able to actively practice magic outside of Hogwarts. I was informed that you would be able to help me address this matter."

He had, of course, been informed of no such thing, but there were persistent rumours around Hogwarts that such services existed and Harry was sure that, id Borgin didn't provide them, he would know of someone who did.

"May I ask you who your father is young sir?" Borgin asked cautiously, unwilling to offend but wary of the law. "While I may or may not, be able to be of assistance, you must understand that such measures cannot be undertaken with just anybody."

"My father's identity is none of your concern. Just know that, while he may be, shall we say, _incapacitated,_ for now at the ministry's pleasure, he will soon be _at liberty_ to visit you himself, and he will be most displeased if you do not cooperate with his requests," Harry said with a smirk.

He knew full well that news of the captured Death Eaters had not been released to the public, but was just as confident that men such as Borgin would already know.

"Of course sir, right this way. Didn't mean to offend, just needed to make sure you were the right sort. I'm sure you understand," Borgin replied, Harry's words stirring the desired fear in the little man.

Borgin went to his front door and turned a key in the lock, before beckoning Harry to follow him and leading him through to a back room, hidden behind the image of a wall, not unlike the one at Platform nine and three quarters. The room was small and cramped, bookcases filled to the brim with dark books took up three of the walls and a cauldron stood in the centre, a murky green potion bubbling inside it. Going over to one of the bookcases, Borgin pulled out a large and crumbling tome and started to flick through the pages. Stopping about halfway through the book, he turned to Harry.

"There are two parts in making your magic untraceable young sir, the first being a simple spell and the second a potion." Harry nodded in response. "I'm afraid the procedure will be painful, but the effects are instantaneous and no one will be able to track it."

"Just do it," Harry replied and Borgin nodded and took out his wand.

He levelled it at Harry, who had to wrestle with every instinct he had not to reach for his own and defend himself. He was putting himself at the mercy of an evil, rat of a man and he wanted desperately bring up his guard but he knew he couldn't; this was something that had to be done. He nodded his readiness.

"Brace yourself sir," said Borgin. "_Celo Hecate"_.

Harry gritted his teeth as a wave of pain crashed over him. It was bad, but nothing compared to the cruciatus curse and he resisted the urge to yelp in pain, not wanting to appear weak to this man. It was over as quickly as it had begun and, as the pain cleared, he was astonished to feel the effects of the spell already. He felt lighter, unburdened, more in touch with his magic, as if it stirred beneath his fingertips, ready for action.

"Your magic is now untraceable sir, but you need to drink this potion, it stops the ministry from being able to trace the '_Celo Hecate' _spell on you," Borgin said.

He proffered a goblet that did not hold the green potion of the cauldron but an equally vile looking brown one. With a grimace, Harry downed it in one, fighting down the impulse to gag as the taste of rotten fish pierced his tongue and climbed back up his throat.

"Thank you Mr. Borgin," he said after he had composed himself. "You have been most helpful."

"Is there anything else I can do for you sir?" Borgin asked slimily.

"Yes," Harry replied. "I am looking for some books, not the kind of thing you would find in 'Flourish and Blotts', you understand, and I have been admiring your collection."

"You will find, sir, that anything can be bought here for a price. Take a look around and let me know if you need any assistance," said Borgin.

Harry ended up buying sixteen more books, all concerned with one aspect or another of the dark arts. Some were on the unforgivables, others on different and numerous dark, illegal curses, the kind of books no Death Eater would be without, and so exactly the kind Harry needed.

"It's been a pleasure doing business with you, Mr Borgin," Harry said, after relieving himself of another five thousand galleons from his coin purse.

"And with you sir," Borgin replied, grinning from ear to ear as he walked Harry towards the door.

"Oh and Mr Borgin?" Harry said, turning around as Borgin looked up, "_Obliviate!"_

The shock didn't have time to register on the shopkeeper's face before the familiar vague and docile expression of the curse took hold. His eyes turned unfocused and Harry could almost sense the memories floating from his skull. He breathed a sigh of relief as he watched it happen. It was a spell he had gone over again and again but he had never had the chance to practice it; he knew all along he would only get one shot and it seemed to have worked.

"It wouldn't do for me to be funding dark wizards would it?" he mumbled as he took back his money from a dazed looking Borgin, who had quite forgotten about the mysterious young customer.

With a pleased smirk on his lips, Harry unlocked the door and walked casually out of the shop and into the street. He was extremely satisfied with his day's work; it had gone far better than he had planned and he finally felt that he was doing something in preparing himself for the inevitable. The next day, the training would truly start and it wouldn't finish until that evil snake was in the ground and all of his pathetic followers beside him. But that was for tomorrow and today, he felt he had earned himself a good night's rest.

He looked at his new watch to see that it read nine forty five. _I better get back before anyone notices I've gone, _he thought, it wouldn't do to have the Order miss him and ruin his plans before they had properly begun. He was lost in this thought as he crossed the threshold between Knockturn Alley and its lighter twin, and felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He breathed easier and had started to plan for the morning when there was a _POP_ behind him. He turned to see what it was but was distracted by another _POP _to his left, then another, then another. His heart stilled in his chest, his breath caught in his throat and for an instant, he froze, cold dread washing over him and stiffening his limbs to inaction as people started to scream. All around him, dark robed men had appeared in the street, ghostly white masks covering their face as they held their wands at the ready. More screams filled his ears, primal things of mortal terror, and, with a sudden shock, he saw he was surrounded. He shook himself from his stillness and forced himself to breathe, pushing aside his shock, biting down his fear. He straightened his shoulders and looked out at those who faced him before snapping his wrist and bringing his wand to his hand. He lowered his head in a mocking bow and lowered himself into a duelling stance.

**A/N: Exciting times. What do you think of Harry's preparations? Do you approve of him taking action for himself? And how will he get out of this? Let me know what you think and thanks for reading.**


	4. Chapter 4

He was surrounded. Seven Death Eaters stood around him, all on alert, all with wands drawn. But they weren't attacking. They took in his dark robes and his emergence from Knockturn Alley and they hesitated. It was just for a split second but Harry knew it was all the advantage he would get, he had to take advantage of this. He flung his wand forward with all the might and magic he could muster, aiming at three of the wizards with a scream of:

"_Reducto!"_

The Death eaters were blown apart, scattered across the ground. Dead or just unconscious, Harry didn't really care, as long as they weren't getting up any time soon.

With the circle shattered, Harry had found his gap and ran for it, heading back towards Knockturn alley. Zigzagging as he went, he couldn't help but wince as the Death eaters, recovered from the explosion, began to shoot sinister bolts of green and red his way. He felt them sizzle and crackle around him, pulsing in the air with an ominous, dark power. He kept his down though, and just kept on running. He ran until he passed through the threshold of Knockturn Alley and then threw himself behind that sat on the corner of the, now abandoned, street. He crouched low, using the wood and iron cart as a blockade between him and his pursuers and trying to ignore the multitude of critters and crawlies that blinked down at him from their cages atop it. Catching his breath and forcing himself to calm down, he peeked over his barrier to see the Death Eaters running his way, having seen him duck behind the stall.

"Damn."

Steadying his wand on a clear bit of stall-top, he took aim and shouted:

"_Stupefy!"_

The stunner found its mark and one of the remaining four fell, to be bound by ropes, conjured by Harry, a second later. It wouldn't do for him to simply be re-enervated and re-join the fight. The Death Eaters continued forward, slowing slightly at the sight of their fallen comrade, more wary of the unknown assailant. But Harry could only watch as, with the two most feared words in the wizarding world; '_Avada Kedavra,'_his only defence caught fire and burnt to the ground, having just missed the top of Harry's head. The insects gave an oddly human scream as they burned and Harry felt his skin crawl. 

Now exposed, he knew he had to act fast and pulled himself to his feet just as one of the Death Eaters cried:

"_Abscindo!"_

Harry winced as the slicing hex hit him painfully in the arm and his skin burst open into a deep gash. His blood poured but he bit back against the pain and started throwing curses, as thick and fast as he could manage. Two more Death Eaters went down to stunners, overwhelmed by the barrage, before Harry had to dive to one side to avoid another killing curse. It was now one on one, though, and the remaining Death Eater, who had almost a foot on Harry, looked noticeably unsure of himself. He raised his wand and, aiming it at Harry's heart screaming

"_Diffindo!"_

Harry just managed to raise a shield with a cry of:

"_Protego! Stupefy!"_

The Death Eater dodged the stunner and sent off a bludgeoning curse towards Harry, deflected it with a shield and once again yelled:

"_Reducto!"_

The Death Eater managed to dodge the curse, but it struck the wall of the shop behind him, sending masses of brick and debris showering down on him, knocking him unconscious and effectively ending the duel.

Breathing a long sigh of relief, Harry cleared away the bricks and magically bound his opponent. Suddenly finding himself alone but for bodies in the dark, foreboding alley, Harry allowed himself a moment of triumph and then of curiosity. He summoned his foe's wand and snapped it in two before kneeling beside the unconscious man's prone form and reaching for his mask. He pulled it gently aside and looked upon the face of his enemy. He had known that his adversaries could not have been high-level Death Eaters, he was not yet powerful to take down one, let alone seven, and wasn't surprised to see that he didn't recognise the well-built villain that lay at his feet. In fact, he didn't really look all that villainous at all. Muscular frame aside, Harry saw with odd thump of his heart that he was little more than a boy, eighteen, nineteen at most. Just out of Hogwarts. He didn't know why such a thing should strike him so, but it did and he stood staring for awhile before recovering himself and remembering where he was.

Looking around, he realised that chaos was still reigning around him as over two dozen Death Eaters continued to terrorise the people of Diagon Alley, just yards from where he stood. It wasn't a battle, it was a game, a hunt, a massacre. The dark-robed figures were laughing and joking, setting buildings afire and shouting curses at shoppers, seemingly at random. He was dismayed to see that very few people were fighting back; too afraid for their own lives and the lives of their families, they were running and disapparating from the scene, not stopping to help others who were trapped or hurt. Harry felt a vile wave of distaste for those who fled, almost as strong as that which he felt for the Death Eaters himself. The single adults, that was, he amended to himself; it was only right for parents to flee with their children, but those who could fight were duty-bound to do so, not run like cowards from danger, blind to the many and the young and the vulnerable in peril. He determined to himself that he would never be one of them.

That was when he heard it. The most evil and loathsome sound in the world to Harry's ears, grating and high, like nails on a blackboard. It was the cruel, mocking baby voice of his godfather's killer. Bellatrix Lestrange stood, towering, over a small girl, no older than six. The girl's parents were crumpled on the floor in a bloody heap, their dead eyes still holding a vestige of their final, mortal dread and their limbs twisted, hands clasped, in pain. Bellatrix was smiling like a child on Christmas Day, full of a mad, manic energy that had her shifting from one foot to the other, laughing at the young girl's whimpering cries.

"Your parents didn't put up much of a fight did they, little girl?" she mocked, her dark eyes dancing with joy. "Their screams were musical, weren't they? But it's no fun when they don't try to resist. How long do you think it will be until you crack sweet girl, two minutes? Maybe three? Do try and last, you wouldn't want to disappoint mummy and daddy by just giving in, would you?"

The girl's eyes widened further, filled with tears and terror beyond words. She wasn't crying now, she wasn't whimpering, she was beyond that, she sat silent and staring, her whole body shaking in shock and fear. Bellatrix raised her wand with a gleeful slowness and Harry's grip on his own tightened, but he knew that he couldn't possibly hit her from so far away. He was helpless, god how he hated being helpless. He watched in terrible awe and horror, cold sweat on his brow, his pule slow and pounding in his ears, unable to look away. Lestrange brought her wand down, the detestable incantation of the Cruciatus Curse on her lips, when a series of pops yet again filled the air of Diagon Alley. Wizards were appearing out of nowhere, clad in the royal blue uniform of the Order of the Phoenix. Tens of them; forty, fifty, maybe sixty figures, appearing and summoning in Harry's soul the most blissful of relief. The Order immediately engaged and Death Eaters started to fall.

Realising that they were outnumbered, many of the Death Eaters apparated away, scared for their lives while a rare few continued the fight. Bellatrix, distracted, left the girl and started to fire off powerful dark curses at the new arrivals. She took down a few of them by herself before the Order started to return fire and she was forced to retreat by sheer numbers, disapparating away to the safety of her master's headquarters. With Bellatrix gone and many of their compatriots captured, the remaining Death Eaters fled, leaving the Order standing in the burning mess of what had moments ago been the hub of British wizarding shopping.

The Aurors amongst the Order members started gathering up the captured Death Eaters, while others tended to the wounded, with the help of the few uninjured shoppers who remained. Still others turned to the worst of the destruction and debris and did what they could to fix up the street and put out any fires. Just then, a movement caught Harry's eye and he looked up to see Nymphadora Tonks heading his way. He looked around himself and realised that he was standing above the bodies of four unconscious and bound Death Eaters, with three other similarly disposed, not far away. _This may raise a few unwanted questions,_ he thought to himself, and quickly turned on his heel and started to walk away.

"Wait!" Tonks called out, as Harry continued to walk away, quickly rounding a corner to get out of line of sight, and more importantly line of wand. "Stop Aurors! Lieutenant Tonks!"

Harry grinned at Tonks' attempt to sound authoritative and picked his pace up into a jog, making his way out of Diagon Alley and into muggle London. From there, he crept quickly down the first side street he saw and, with a surreptitious glance around him, stuck out his wand. The Knight Bus, roared its way into existence from thin air and screeched to a halt inches in front of Harry's face. He didn't flinch, he was getting used to it by now, but hastily boarded, making sure that his hood still fully obscured his face as he did.

"Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency…." Stan began to recite his spiel.

"Little whinging, Surrey please Stan," Harry interrupted, handing over some gold and purposefully avoiding giving an exact address to protect his identity.

Stan once again looked at Harry suspiciously, noting the blood on his robes and the gash on his arm, no doubt having heard about the battle at Diagon Alley, but Harry turned away quickly, not giving Stan time to question him and trusted the extra gold to keep Stan's silence.

Harry staggered through the bus as it jerked into motion and sped on its way, finding a bed to the rear and collapsing down on it as the day's events raced through his mind. He couldn't believe that he let Bellatrix slip away again. He loathed her very being, hated her more than anyone, except, perhaps, Voldemort, and he desperately wanted to avenge his Godfather, to end her life himself, to see that mocking smile die on her lips. These thoughts disturbed Harry, shook him to his core, but he couldn't deny their truth. He wanted to do it, he wanted to kill her.

He was interrupted from his thoughts before they could grow any darker by Stan's announcement to the bus.

"Next stop: Little Whinging, Surrey."

A few minutes later, the bus pulled up and Harry disembarked, walking the last few blocks to his house, once again safely covered in his invisibility cloak. Back in his bedroom, he found a bandage and wrapped it tightly around his wound, wincing violently and stifling a groan as the cloth touched the exposed flesh. Distracting himself from the pain, he then unpacked all of his new purchases, unshrinking his new trunk, filling its library with his new books, putting his new clothes, muggle and wizard, into his wardrobe and throwing out Dudley's old rags.

Having bought all of the necessary supplies and, more determined than ever after the earlier battle, Harry found himself still too awake for sleep. Tomorrow, his training would begin and it would not be complete until he could stand against Voldemort and win. He allowed himself a small, wry smile at this thought, but quickly turned serious. He needed a plan, a way to give himself the best possible chance; to turn a regular, almost sixteen year old, boy into a powerful warrior. He had a decent start; he wasn't too modest to admit his own talent for defence and duelling, but he needed much more. And he would not rest until he had it. He sat at his old, battered desk and once again took out his parchment and quill to begin a list. There was no witty title this time, just one word: **Schedule.**

**06:30-07:30: Get up, run laps around the park.**

**07:30-08:00: Back home for weight lifting and press-ups.**

**08:00-09:00: Hand to hand and armed combat.**

**09:00-09:20: Shower and breakfast.**

Having taken care of the physical exercise portion, Harry thought about what he would need to learn in terms of spells and other magical preparation. After thinking for a few minutes, he once again put quill to parchment.

**09:20-12:00: Defence spells and curses.**

**12:00-13:30: The Dark Arts.**

**13:30-14:00: Lunch.**

**14:00-17:00: Transfiguration and Charms.**

**17:00-17:30: Potions.**

**17:30-18:30: Wandless and silent magic**

**18:30-19:00: Dinner:**

**19:00-20:30: Animagus training.**

**20:30-21:30: Apparation training.**

**21:30-22:30: Occlumency and Leglimency**

**23:00: Bed.**

He winced to look at it. Half an hour each for lunch and dinner and half an hour at night; that all he was leaving for himself to relax. But it was good; he didn't need relaxation, he needed work. He needed to keep his mind busy and, more than anything, he needed to feel like he was doing something. He looked over the timetable again and smiled, satisfied that he actually had something concrete in front of him and that he had everything he would need on his list. The hand-to-hand and armed combat, he felt, was a nice touch. They would undoubtedly help with his physical fitness and concentration and he thought that, if he ever lost his wand, he would need to have a plan b, with which to defend himself. That was the reason he had taken a dagger from the Potter family vault and that was the reason he was planning on getting Gryffindor's sword back from Dumbledore as soon as he could.

With all of the distractions during his trip, and with the battle, it was now approaching midnight and he was physically and mentally exhausted, and was still aching from throwing himself in his duels. After promising himself that his training would begin first thing tomorrow morning, he climbed wearily into bed, cleared his mind and drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

Harry quickly silenced the shrill, incessant beeping of his alarm at half past six the next morning, so as not to disturb his sleeping relatives. Rising from his bed, he quietly got dressed in a new tracksuit he had purchased from London the previous morning, and slipped out of the house. Noting how few people there were at this time and thanking god for the peaceful night, he made his way to the park and started what would now be his daily ritual of running laps around the park.

He re-entered his bedroom an hour later, exhausted. He had lasted about half an hour before the pain had set in and his pace had started to steadily drop until the last five minutes, which he had done as a slow jog. Nevertheless, he was pleased with the distance he had run, he wasn't quite as unfit as he'd thought, and made a mental note to double it by the end of the holidays.

After a short break to allow his heart rate to return to an acceptable level, he picked up some weights he had managed to 'borrow' from Dudley and started to lift them. Again, he didn't get very far and, after his time was up, gladly dropped the weights, already aching all over his body. He was buoyed by the thought of what came next though and, with a thrill of excitement, he opened the fourth compartment of his trunk and entered his new duelling arena for the first time. _Perfect_, he thought as he looked around the room. A large duelling platform, much like the one he had seen Snape and Lockhart duel on in his second year, dominated the centre of the room, rising from the floor slightly in a low, long stage. The walls were decorated with exquisitely detailed paintings of famous duels of times gone by, their occupants dodging and ducking within their frames, shooting bolts of colourful curses as they danced back and forth in rhythmic combat. Harry even thought one picture might be of a young Dumbledore, his beard short and auburn as he battled against a young and handsome man. In one corner of the room was the equipment; targets, wooden practice bows and swords, punchbags and oddly lifelike dummies, which looked very finely crafted, even if they did freak Harry out more than a little. He picked up one of the swords and gave it a bit of a swing. The weight was comfortable in his hand and he tried a few practice jabs before placing it back down and turning to the dummies. Pinned to the front of one of their robes, he found a note and read it with interest.

Dear Buyer,

These dummies you look upon are no ordinary dummies but in fact ingenious creations of my own devising. No, no, don't mention it, you are quite welcome. Each dummy, though with their ingenuity, I feel a more appropriate name is deserved, is resistant to all but the most powerful of spell damage and will repair itself if broken. And they are not your run of the mill, stand there and do nothing dummies either, goodness me, no. They can be animated, you see. Simply place your hand above your dummy of choice, I am rather partial to Jim on the end, and say the word 'Animate'. Your fine new friend will then attempt to dodge any spells or arrows you may choose to send its way. I had a problem for some time with the dummies seeking revenge once they had been hit once too often. One of them attacked me in my sleep, but I'm almost positive that the problem is sorted now and at the expense of only one foot too (not to worry, I still have two left). If fencing is your game, simply place a sword in its hand and it will give you a jolly good match, for it, rather cleverly, if I may say so, measures and matches your skill in swordsmanship, providing an appropriately skilled opponent even as you progress in your training. For Hand to hand combat, place your hand over your dummy's head and say the words 'Animate Hand to hand'. Your dummy will then fight you, once again matching your skill in that super way of theirs. The dummies will not, however, improve while in a battle. This means that when you beat them, you will know you have improved in the art of fencing or hand to hand combat and your new level will be matched the next time you fight. Thank you for shopping with Trimble's, as I'm sure you have gathered, you are to be congratulated on your most excellent judgement in fine trunk makers.

Happy duelling,

Vulcan Trimble

Smiling at Trimble's eccentric ingenuity, Harry put a sword in the hand of one of the dummies and, placing his hand over its head, said clearly:

"Animate!"

The Dummy sprang to life, climbed to its feet and turned its head face Harry. For half a breath it did nothing but stare before, suddenly, it swung its sword downwards towards his head. Reactions taking over, Harry raised his own sword and blocked the blow, trying to recover his wits. Pushing the sword away, he adjusted his feet into duelling stance, just as the dummy lunged, and he was forced to hurriedly parry the attack away. Quickly regaining his balance, he decided to try an attack of his own and aimed a fast jab at the dummy's mid-section. This was blocked and the dummy turned its defence into attack with an upward blow towards Harry's left arm. Harry just managed to get his sword in the way but the dummy's weapon still bounced off his arm and he wince a little before adjusting his grip and looking for where he could attack next.

The duel carried on this way for some time, with both parties landing the occasional hit and Harry growing steadily more tired. He was also improving, however, and, eventually, he managed to catch an attack from the dummy and spin it around, hitting the dummy's hand and disarming it. Harry levelled his sword at the dummy's chest and, as though conceding defeat, it bowed low to him and fell to the floor, inanimate once more.

Harry, spent the next chunk of his schedule experimenting with his knives and the bow and getting started on hand to hand combat, going against the dummy once more. After the hour was up, he climbed from his trunk, exhausted but satisfied at a good start to his training. He grabbed a quick drink from his room before, once again, checking his timetable, to find that next up was, arguably, the most important part of his training. Taking out one of the new advanced defence books he had purchased in Diagon alley, he began to read. He leafed through a couple of his books, searching for promising spells until he found the four he wanted to practice first.

First was a more powerful version of the 'Protego' shield charm, the 'Aegis Ultimus charm' would protect against medium level curses and jinxes and would take the edge off the more advanced dark curses Death Eaters liked to throw about. It was a highly useful thing; Protego, he knew, would only get him so far against the big boys. Then there was the Extrudo curse. This was a simpe thing but, again, useful. It forcefully pushed people back and away, its distance depending on the power of the caster. Harry's favourite bit about the spell, though, was that Protego and even Aegis Ultimus were useless against it; the only counter was a conjured silver shield, a very advanced piece of transfiguration indeed, or else it had to be dodged.

Next were two spells, which were tied into the elements of fire and earth. 'Deflagratio' released a jet of fire towards the target. More powerful than Incendio, it could burn a person to ashes in seconds in the hands of a powerful wizard; certainly a curse only for his enemies and in the most dire of circumstances. After seeing the effects of the shop wall collapsing around the last Death Eater in Diagon Alley, Harry had realised that a curse did not need to hit the adversary to have a devastating effect on the duel. This led him to 'Motus Humo'. This handy little curse would disintegrate the ground on impact, making it shake and crumble and fall apart, as if struck by an isolated earthquake. It occurred to Harry, that this could be immensely useful for taking an opponent down, as, if they weren't prepared, it would be easy to for them to trip and fall as the ground fell apart at their feet. Harry knew from experience that the last place you wanted to be in a duel was on the floor.

With his spells carefully selected, Harry spent the next hour and a bit practicing them over and over, until he felt that he could perform them well. Allowing himself a brief moment's rest and focus, he then went over to the equipment corner and animated one of the dummies. Jim, for it was he, rose quickly to his feet and started to move. He ran and dodged and ducked and dived to avoid the stunners and curses that Harry had begun to throw at him. His curses were quick and accurate but the dummy was a work of genius and managed to evade every one of them, until Harry decided it was time to bring his new spells into action. Carefully aiming his wand just in front of where the dummy was running, he cried:

"_Motus Humo!_"

The ground fell apart at the dummy's feet and it went tumbling down to the ground, where Harry promptly finished it off with a well-placed "_Stupefy!"_

Pleased with the results of the first new spell, Harry quickly revived Jim, who once again started to run around, making himself a near impossible target to hit. After a few missed shots, Harry realised that he would have to make use of the Motus Humo curse again and fired it at the dummy's feet. Again it tripped and, before it hit the ground, was hit by a bolt of lightning blue light as Harry bellowed:

"_Extrudo!"_

The bolt struck the dummy in the chest and, much to Harry's delight, it was sent flying back until it smashed into the far wall of the room. It started to slide to the ground, only to be hit again, this time by a vast and powerful stream of fire, which burst forth from Harry's wand with a shout of:

"_Deflagratio!"_

In seconds, as the book had promised, the dummy was reduced to ashes. However, Trimble's promise was just as good and, as soon the last of the ashes had fluttered to the ground, they started to mould themselves back together, changing and morphing until it had returned, spectacularly, to its original shape. It then bowed to Harry and fell back to the ground, showing no signs that it had, seconds before, been reduced to a pile of ash. Harry shook his head. _You're good Trimble, I'll give you that._

He then paused for thought; the next spell would be much trickier to try out. The dummies, as impressive as they were, could not perform magic, which would obviously be needed if he was to test the advanced shield. He then remembered what the clerk had told him about the body of the trunk; it was heavily shielded, spell resistant, which meant that if he got his angles right and kept to less powerful spells, he could fire curses at himself. Not his most elegant of ideas, perhaps, he admitted, but it would have to do for now. Steadying his wand and taking aim at the far wall, he said:

"_Stupefy!"_

The red beam leapt from his wand and hit the wall before, as he had hoped, rebounding back at him. Quickly raising his wand, he traced a circle in the air and, forcing a feeling of security, shouted:

"_Aegis Ultimus!"_

He was satisfied to see the air around him palpably solidify, with a metallic glint, and the curse rebounded off it, harmlessly hitting one of the dummies on the floor. Harry smirked to himself, satisfied with his efforts so far and knowing that all three of those spells could be invaluable in the future.

This took Harry up to the next part of his training and the part that would be the most dangerous. And, he reminded himself, the most controversial if he was found out. He remained convinced, however, that the dark arts could teach him a lot and believed, in his heart, that it was not the spell or the potion that was evil but the intent of the user. With this in mind, he picked up one of the dark arts books he had got from Borgin and Burkes and, opening up 'Dark and Deadly Curses', he began to read.

The first curse he read about was '_Sectumsempra'__._ This was an advanced cutting hex of sort, which caused deep gashes to sprout on the head and torso of the victim. Potentially lethal, it was also illegal and would mean time in Azkaban if he was ever caught using it, but he knew that it was also a curse that could be massively useful in battle.

He hadn't started going down this road only to falter at the first step, he decided determinedly; he would learn the spell. He positioned himself in a duelling stance and read the book's description of the spell again, making sure he had it fixed in his mind. It was a complex spell, very advanced dark magic, and required a hell of a lot of power to cast. The book recommended placing as much energy into the curse as the caster could muster and described the mind-set needed for its successful use. It said the wizard or witch must desire to harm the person against whom it was aimed, a detail that reminded Harry uncomfortably of the Cruciatus Curse. All the same, he knew he could conjure enough hatred to fire it and scanned over the wand movement and pronunciation one last time.

Preparing himself, he pictured Voldemort in his mind, remembering all of the things he had had to endure because of him, all that man, that monster had stolen from him. His hatred boiled and he called on his magic, summoning it from the depths of his cells. He slashed his wand down and screamed with ferocity:

"_Sectumsempra!_"

He almost fell to the ground from the recoil as a huge bolt of sickly green magic burst from his wand, flying towards the wall of the duelling arena at speed. At that moment, a bang and a crash echoed from outside the trunk, sounding like it came from his room. Unbeknownst to him, Ron's owl, Pig, had crashed through his window and on to his floor. It was enough. Harry was distracted, he glanced up towards the noise for just a split second but at just the wrong moment.

It was in that instant that the curse rebounded, that it flew towards Harry at colossal speed. The next thing Harry knew was a flash of pale green in his peripheral vision and then a spike of extraordinary pain. He had known a lot of pain in his life, but only the Cruciatus Curse truly compared to what he felt when Sectumsempra hit. Two gashes, deep and ragged, tore into his chest and face, causing blood to spurt forth from his wounds. He dropped to his knees at once and then to his side, his vision swimming, the darkness encroaching from the dual blows of blood loss and pain. The light of his trunk grew dimmer, his awareness eased, even the pain started to fade a litte. Losing consciousness alone in one of the secret compartments of his trunk, Harry knew there was only one thing he could do, only one word he could say that just might spare his life and he whispered with pained reverence.

"Dobby."

**A/N: There you have it, chapter 4 of the rewritten Harry Potter and the Birth of a Legend. Let me know what you thought of the battle and what Harry's doing to prepare for his future. The next chapter will see a few of the other characters coming into it.**


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